decency
being
not just about
how we treat each other
but , more challenging,
how we treat the
mysterious
perhaps threatening
others

it’s hard,
so much easier to feed the devil
than to keep alive the angels
of our spirit
even harder
to protect our potential angels
when the devil is fed so well
from the highest levels
of our government

making it not good enough
to be good,
we must be stubborn in our goodness
as well…

good and stubborn…

maybe
that will help us make it through
the time of the devil’s
darkness that is
upon us

Lots of problems with my blog host this week (at on point it was spell-checking syllables), so it might not be my fault (whatever it is).

New poems, old poems (from my third eBook, Always to the Light, poems from my library and random photos.

Me

good and stubborn

Me

veiled

Jorge Guillen

Stream With Washerwoman

Me

scattered in the wide night sky

Cynthia Zarin

stream with washerwomen

Me

hiding behind words again

Tu Fu

Banquet at the Tso Family Manor

Me

my turn

Robert Bonazzi

Lonely for Solitude

Me

four special things at the coffeehouse early

Walter McDonald

The Last Still Days in a Bunker

Me

smile for me

Wanda Coleman

rules

Me

crackpots of the world unite

Gary Blankenship

Fever, Lone Star

Gleam, Invitation

Me

my brother teaches me the art of war

Kevin Prufer

Girls in Heaven

Me

a doubters prayer

Wislawa Szymborska

Bruelhgel's Two Monkeys

Going Home

Me

a mighty fine thing to see

In the beginning, the world was dark.

veiled

deep fog

covering the city

like a gray silk veil

later today

strong thunderstorms

promised

but for now the

fog

cars passing on the highway

in silence, gray sharks

passing, ghosts

in the mist

passing

First from my library is a poem from the anthology, Roots & Wings, Poetry from Spain 1900-1975. The book was published by White Pine Press 1976.

The poet is Jorge Guillen. Born in 1892, Guillen died in 1984. A member of the generation of '27, he was a poet, university teacher, scholar, and literary critic.

His poem was translated from Spanish by Charles Guenther.

Stream with Washerwomen

Rushes float in the streamThat stirs them in its current,Poised as if they advanced.

They don't advance.They follow,Green-gold, toward the horizon,The murmur of a busy shore.In the mass of bluish water Clothes crackle with increasing weight Under the torrent of shouts.

Flourishes of f brushes, sputters of slang,The morning wide open on their revelry.The shore is perfect like that, feminine. Can life be enjoyed kneeling on the riverbanks?A necessary bending of the body...The shore is over there. (Is the whole world pain?)

Always to the Light was my third eBook. I knew the title I wanted and I knew the image I wanted for the cover, a nude facing bright light. Unfortunately I knew no nude models, at least none I could afford, so I did it myself. In a fit of good sense, I cropped the photo for publication.

That's the dirty little secret of Always to the Light (and the poet's dedication to his art).

scattered in the wide night sky

scattered

in the wide night sky

are pinpoints of light

bringing star-heat

to worlds like our

own

biological stews

pining the universal

spark

on some

and on others

life at its most simple

is cradled,

protected from the

cosmic storms,

and on a relative few

creatures who strive

and dream

like you and

I

I

know this

like some people

know God, such

knowledge

a product of longing

in the lonely bright

for a companion

worthy

of our best nature

The next poet from my library is Cynthia Zarin. Her poem is from her book, The Swordfish Tooth, published by Knopf in 1989.

Born in 1959, Zarin graduated from Harvard and earned her MFA at Columbia. She teaches at Yale.

Time inchoate, meaningless. Two birds,trapped all night inside the porch,arch and dinagainst the grid. A day equalsa black year - motor of the blood a drill gone mad.At dawn we found them, wooed them out.

And then, last night, a mole: visitant friarat the garbage can. Alone I stamp my foot,but, bold in company, one guest terrified,, becomebenign protector of dim habits,earthlyor unearthly scrounging, in or out.

Words can illuminate,but they can also obfuscate. Easy for writers to slip either way.

hiding behind words again

Allison Krause

interviewed by NPR

this morning

and I think of how much

I enjoy her music

and how little time I spend

listening to it,

not because there's not enough time

but because I don't take the time,

too buys with this and that,

writing this, reading that...

and I think of all the music

I have missed in my life

because I was too busy to sit and listen,

and I wonder what else I've missed

because I was too engaged

to hear, too distracted to see...

the only stillness

in my life is the part I see

through my camera lens ad through

this exercise of writing and lately

I've been so sunk in pseudo life

my camera sits in my car unused,

my writing, about some other life,

my own missing even there...

so while it's true

I'm fierce about protecting

my writing time, the time I'm protecting

seems more and more a sorry

substitute for thesmiles

I see around m, the light in the eyes

of the people living lives

I merely observe

I'm wondering

about all I've written myself out of,

wondering if at this late time

it's not too late to write myself

back in...

This piece is from the anthology One Hundred Poems from the Chinese, a New Directions book published in 1971. Poems were collected and translated by Kenneth Rexroth.

The first poem in the book is this, by the master, Tu Fu.

Banquet at the Tso Family Manor

The windy forest is checkeredBy the light of the setting,Waning moon. I turn the luteIts springs are moist with dew.The brook flows in the darknessBelow the flower path. The thatchedRoof is crowned with constellations.As we write thecandles burn short.Our wits grow sharp as swords whileThe wine goes round. When the poemContest is ended, someoneSings a song of the South. And I think of my little boat,And long to be on my way.

Another from Always to the Light.

my turn

it is a cold

sloppy wet day

a glorious

day

a touch

of winter

finally

in mid-March

evidence

you'll get

what you want

if you'll just

wait long enough

meanwhile

on South Padre

beaches

all the little

bunny-bumps

are freezing

their little cherry butts

not what they wanted

but I don't care

they're young

and haven waited

long

enough

Robert Bonazzi is the next poet from my library. His poem is from his book, Maestro of Solitude, published by Wings Press of San Antonio in 2007.

In addition to his numerous books, Bonazzi, is a columnist with the San Antonio Express-News.

Lonely For Solitude

Dogs bark fear into warning

rattle chains at shadow or echo

I'm the insomniac fixated on sleep

cursing hounds to awaken silence

I have acquaintance with

The Absolute

which remains mute through

some loudly claim to hear whispers

There must be a way

to be at one with the reed

attuned to wind and tide

There must be a way

to delight nature with our silence

I rip away

brooding rags of thought

to probe paradoxical wounds

healing in solitude

More coffeehouse stories. What would I do without them.

four special things at the coffeehouse early

the young woman

with the Jane Russell hair

walks in

followed close behind

by the homeless guy who stops in

every morning for a cup of

coffee, paid for by

himself

this morning,

street corner dues paid

by the guilty of

conscience

sits

at a table next to me

and I notice

he's in better shape

today than yesterday when he was wrapped

in a blanket, sleepy-eyed

and barefoot

the dual pleasures

of early morning at the coffeehouse,

the pretty girl with Jan Russell

hairand the homeless guy

who on good days

finds

his shoes...

oh,

I almost forgot

about the great waffles

and perfect extra-crispy bacon,

so that's four reasons

to be early

at the coffeehouse...

hard to decide my favorite,

probably not the homeless guy,

but a real close call between

the waffle and extra-crispy bacon

and the girl with Jane Russell

hair...

ooh,

bonus

this morning -

the homeless guy

is talking

and is

coherent,

making no sense,

but speaking in complete

sentences, unmistakablesign

of having found a really good street

corner...

(oh my god,

the barista called his name,

"Freddy"

shades of Red Skelton born again!

This poem is by Walter McDonald, from his book, Night Landings. The book was published in 1989 by Harper and Row.

McDonald is a poet and former professorat Texas Tech University where he was a professor of English and Poet in Residence. He served as Poet Laureate of Texas in 2001.

The Last Still Days in a Bunker

All morning we saw flames in the distance,rockets or mortars, not bombs which curland billow up like clouds. We left the doorwide open for a breath of air,the heavy monsoon threatening Saigon

like a flood, the only breezethe secretfiles we fanned our faces with,and shredded. I shook my head at our schemes

and sweat flew. For weeks, rocketshad fallen on the base like Sodom.

Secretaries slept nude in this walk-in vault.At dawn when we opened eight-bolt lockswe found them dressed, their torsosoutlined in sweat on the concrete.Now, we were alone in khaki andblack shoes

scuffed dull from days of shredding orders,like trying to hide our tracksin the jungle. We listened for news,but all we heard piped inwere the same old country and western tunes

that kept us human. I flung cold sweatand fed another sealed orderinto the whirring shredder, wonderinghow many tons of bombs we'd abandon,how many battles we might stop.

Sunday brunch at my favorite diner, from Always to the Light.

smile for me

it's the lunch sideof Sundaybrunch

& the placeis packed,a mixed crowd

of church folkin their Sunday best

&the just-crawled-out-of-bed

in shorts &flip-flops,bed-head

hairflat on one sidesticking out

on the other,like a porcupine

in heat,& the golfersfrom the quarry

clip-clop,clip-clop-clipin their golf shoes

& the grandmas andpregnant moms with last year's

babiesin high chairs,dads in khakis

& hard-starchedcheckered shirtsthinking

how simplelifeis at work

& that babyagain,looking at

mefrom across the room

talkingtalkingtalking

hyper-alert,smilinga big toothless

smileforme

this swirlof sound& coloris like I'm home

unmovingin the centerof a whirlpool

of sensation,all moving sound & color streaming

like paintflungin a circle

except the babytalkingtalking

talking,smiling a bigtoothless

smilefor me

I just bought this bookat my local half-price bookstore this afternoon. The book is The Lace of Tough Mesquite - A Texas Heritage, published by Eakin Press in 1993. The book was winner of the W.E. Bard Book Award in 1992.

The poet is E'lane Carlisle Murry, who, though I didn't know her, spent a great deal of her life on the Texas coast where I also spent a great deal of my life.

where the soft roar has no final note,now where the fine spray smells of pungent salt,

the windblown passerby at Indian Pointis bonded with transparent wavesand broken pier.

I couldn't find a photo of the poet, but I did find her obituary from 2011.

February is a big month in our family. In addition to what's covered here, there's our son's birthday a week before.

knowinga good thing when I found it

three days from now

is my 73rd birthday

the day after that,

our 40th wedding anniversary...

my spouse,

a mere slip of a girl on the day

of the day,

an innocent with a wide smile

and tiny feet,

whereas I,

a bedraggled 33-year-old

having seen better

days,

was at least smart enough

to know a good thing

when I found it

and it worked out

pretty darn

good

Next, a poem by Wanda Coleman, from her book, Heavy Daughter Blues. The book was published by Black Sparrow Press in 1991.

Coleman, born in 1946, died in 2013. She was known as "the LA blueswoman" and unofficial poet laureate of Los Angeles.

Rules

walk on the inside away from the curbno public displays of affectionwhen you call, let the phone ring twicehang up and then dial again

call only if it's an emergencyif she answers, hang up

have the kids in bed when I get there

i like my wine chilly, ice cold,please keep
the ice tray filled

play jazz for me. keep it low. you like
your music too loud

keep a wet towel handy on the night stand
so we don't have to get up and go to the bathroom

when we fuck
suck my nipples

when you cum call me jesus

Another from my eBookAlways to the Light.

Hard to believe that so many of the poemsin this book are not contemporaneouslywritten.

crackpots of the world unite

it so happensthat I live in a sectionof these great DiscombobulatedStates of Americawherecommon senseis seen as a disturbingsignof rampantleft-wingismand the principleRepublicanrecruiting sloganappears to beCrackpots of the World Unite...

some of these attitudesmay be the result of pridein our frontierheritagethough most of thoseso afflictedare prosperousbut mortgaged to their eyeballsby the 21st century,suburbaniteswho wouldn't know a frontierif it bit them on the ass...

some of it comesfrom religious fundamentalistswho confuse speaking in tongueswith thinking in circles,god-folkprincipally concerned withenumeratingthe sins of everyone who doesn'tbelieveexactly as they do,confident as thy make their lists that these peopleare really gonna be fucked when Jesusfinds out what they've been thinking...

but mostly I thinkit's the weather, the heatand lack of rain, little jumping neuronsfrying like an automobileengine running without oil

it it'd just rain around here,and maybe cool off a bit, I thinkmost of these people wouldcome to their senses

(As we now know these years later, I was wrong. Rain didn't solve anything)

These short poems are by my poet-friend Gary Blankenship, from his book, The Poetic States and a drop of sunshine. The book, Gary's second or third was published by HsinchuCity in 2014.

An addendum to his Texas poem

Fever, Lone Starfor Dale

Mesquite fires crackle across the hills,no wind until the hurricanes blow by.Too hot to siesta, when the sun's downdance to tejano, brisket on the grill.

An addendum to his NewHampshire poem

Gleam, Invitation

He sat on the rock fence,hat pulled down his eyes;She sat on the front porch,bonnet in her hand.

He sauntered homeward,she swirled calico;they left the bonnet and the hat on the porch swing.

(An addendum to his Utah poem)

Where They Stay All Day in the Sun

where appaloosas range broken mesas,where fry bread and fresh jam our daily fare -till a full moon shines over the last coalsand we count stars we never imagined.

A remembrance of my older brother, passed on many years now.

my brother teaches me the art of war

the great general Sun Tzu

lists four ways to defeat your enemy

in order of effectiveness...

the least effective, he said, is siege, a losing strategy

even if you win, while the most effective, he

advises is to counter-attack before your enemy

attacks you, anticipate an attack, but

don't wait for it to strike back...

my older brother, ten years older

and wise to the world when I was still

in knee pants, was a fighter, who never learned

the meaning of words like "give up" or, especially,

"back down"

though never a fighter myself, he did teach me

his rules for fighting, and though I'm sure

he never read The Art of War, he understood

the general's lessons very well, especially

the first one...

if you see a fight coming, he said, don't let

the other fella start it; fight first, in the general's words,

counter attack before your enemy can attack,

hit them first, my brother taught me,

hit them first and as hard as you can and when

you get them on the ground, keep them on the ground

until thy quit trying

to get up

the only thing worse than fighting, he said

is losing a fight once it's started...

he may have never heard

of Sun Tzu, but the general

would have welcomed him to his

army...

From my library, this poem is by Kevin Prufer. the poem is taken from his book National Anthem, published by Four Way Books in 2008.

Born in 1969 in Ohio, Prufer is a poet, academic, editor, essayist and Professor of English in the Creative Writing Program at the University of Houston. He received a BA from Wesleyan University, and MA from Hollins University and an MFA at Washington University in St. Louis.

Girls in Heaven

Sometimes, it rains for days, so we crawl into our cabin beds. My eyes snap shutlike a doll's. The pink spot on the cheek, a plastic flushthat stains the neck, queer thrill of lace

where the throat begins -

I am always dreaming

##

of satelliteswinking over the seascape like sewing needles,

of a boy's handsthat crack the seam of the bluest egg.

##

Or it is a windy day so the houses quake on their stilts,the palm trees waving their arms at the sea. How did you happen to -- the blond girl says.I felt a little faint, collapsed

in the pool of my skirt.

Where were you?

The rowboat make me dizzy and I fell.

Silence

##

I had a palpitation,

a bird in my throat that wouldn't sing.My father far away hunting deer and I, standing in the rowboat,a parasol ache, a boy's voice, singing and the sound of oars.

##

More dreaming - a boy's hand on his oar, the smileof cut water, laughter. When I open my mouth, birdsong -

##

Days pass, then sun.

We lie on our backs on the dock.A fluttering of pages in the breeze. No, hair. Waves.Do you remember?

The brain retards and, yes - it was sun-drenchedthe day I died, my head grown hot my fingers -

Here's my last poem for this week from Always to the Light.

a doubter's prayer

dear most unlikely

heavenly father,

god of fear and weak

minds, hear my prayer

if you exist

and actually care

about stuff like us, please

bring us peace and protect us

from harm in the world you may

or may not have created

your creations,

should you be willing to accept

such responsibility

are in disarray - your stockmarket,

to take just one example, is in deepest

doo-doo, as are you banks, your big box

retail stores, your automobile manufacturers,

your farmers, your ranchers and your purveyors

of overpriced goods in upscaleniche markets

not only that,

but your most worthy of all claimed creations, (me),

is getting old and fat and exceedingly

absent minded...

it's all in the toilet

as you should very well know

if you really are the all-seeing-eye

your PR flacks proclaim you to be, which,

quite frankly bring into deep doubt

your status as a be-all-end-all master builder

so just in case you actually are

king of all this creation,

I would humbly (if reluctantly) pray

that you get back on the job and fix this mess

your creation has slipped into...

in your unlikely name,

I pray you to make it so, just like the Star trek guy

who, I have to say, has a much more likely backstory

than your own and who would probably be

an acceptable replacement to mostof us

if you don't demonstratesome all-powerful Mr. Fix-it skills

pretty darn quick

it's the least you could do

if you really are all you're cracked up to be...

(but I doubt it)

Next, a couple of poems from one of my favorites, Wislawa Szymborska, from the collection of poems from previous books, View With a Grain of Sand. You can tell she's a favorite - I used her poem from another book either just last week or the week before.

This poem from her book, Calling Out To Yeti (1957)

Brueghel's Two Monkeys

This is what I see in my dreams about final exams:two monkeys, chained to the floor, sit on the windowsill,the sky behind the flutters,the sea is taking its bath.

The exam is History of Mankind.I stammer and hedge.

One monkey stares and listens with mocking disdain,the other seems to be dreaming away -but when it's clear I don't know what to sayhe prompts me with a gentleclinking of his chain.

From her book, Could Have (1972)

Going Home

He came home. Said nothing.It was clear though,that somethinghad gone wrong.He lay down fully dressed.Pulled the blanket over is headTucked in his knees.He's nearly forty , but not at the moment.He exists just as he did inside his mother's womb,clad in seven walls of skin, in sheltered darkness.Tomorrow he'll give a lectureon homeostasis in megagalactic cosmonautics.For now, though, hascurledup and gone to sleep.

My last new poem for the week - a mighty fine memory.

a mighty fine thing to see

I am a history,

a memory inventing itself

Octavio Paz

I didn't exactly

know

even in those days

what

a hully gully

was, but I had a girlfriend

who did the hully gully

like a fire burning hot and bright

and it was a mighty fine

thing to

see

I've got a bug in what usually goes here, so I'm not putting here what usually goes here.

Except, one print book available at Amazon; seven eBooks available wherever eBooks are sold.